


Where the Heart Is

by a_shepherd



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Bereavement & Grief, Gen, Post Traumatic Stress, family ties, the horrors of war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 04:32:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1415245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_shepherd/pseuds/a_shepherd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belatedly, from a Ficathon 2013 Prompt from ana:<br/>Someone gives Aral important advice/a life lesson. Whether from words of wisdom (a conversation he has with someone) or due to an event (good or bad, big or small, stupid or profound)is up to you - my only criteria is that there is a canon character involved, preferably female, and she doesn't have to be an adult - could be a child. BUT NOT CORDELIA.</p><p> </p><p>      His ragged sigh was dark, bottomless, gutwrenching. “Somehow, I thought I’d feel better once it was over; that I’d feel good, victorious. Vindicated. But I don’t, Gran. I don’t at all. Just dirty. Sick and dirty. It feels like....” his new voice cracked, “I might never be clean again."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the Heart Is

**Author's Note:**

> I went for characters - all canon specific females, as specified - who are mentioned but rarely, if ever, seen - that I felt had a major impact on and/or were important his life. The first two - there are three in all (there’s no such thing as too much Aral!) - are not even named in the Vorkosiverse.
> 
> This is the second of the series, with liberal quotes from the brilliant bedroom scene in Shards - Aral's interview with the dying Ezar who is trying to convince him to accept the regency.

      Xav - her dear, thoughtful, practical Xav - brought Aral home with him that dark, foul day immediately following Yuri’s execution. Trust Xav to always do the perfect thing...        

      “Damn fool was going to take the boy to that cold, empty house, and leave him there alone while he went about his business with Ezar,” Xav thundered, angrier than she’d ever known him. “How could he even _consider_ such a thing? Some people ought not to be allowed to have children if they aren’t going to care for them properly!” 

      “You’ll get no argument from me, Xav Vorbarra. That’s how we do it on Beta Colony,” she teased, attempting to lighten his mood. _Beta vs Barrayar_ was an ongoing inside joke between them, and had been since the day they met, but she could see he was much too upset to take the bait this time.

      “I just could not allow that to happen, could I, Princess?” Despite his anger, he still used his pet name for her. Xav’s brow was deeply furrowed, his dark eyes glaring furiously beneath. His pacing footsteps thudded heavily, even through the thick Oriental rug. He was nearly bellowing, which startled and unsettled her, so dramatically unlike him as it all was. “I couldn’t bear the thought of that poor boy being left alone today. God, especially not after today! I just _had_ to bring him home with me, didn’t I, Princess? I knew you would want me to.” 

      “Of course I would. You did the right thing, Xav. We’ll deal with Piotr later.” _If he objects at all,_ which she didn’t think likely… _Huh,_ she fumed, _if he even noticed!_  

      That was probably unfair to her son-in-law, she knew, but not very. Piotr had been an all-important, busy man before, even more so now as the Emperor Ezar’s right hand, but it had always seemed to both of them that their second grandson was far down on his father's list of priorities. “I’ll see to Aral,” she told Xav, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. “Can I get anything for you?” 

      He shook his white mane, husky voiced, his face a portrait of misery. “Later, Princess, but thank you.”

       Xav was extremely distraught. In spite of everything, Yuri was still his brother. They’d had a decent relationship for most of their lives after Yuri’s mother died, before things began to go south after the Emperor-their-Father died after the Occupation, and Yuri took his place on the campstool. She had tea waiting, with a variety of baked goods. The prince, hands trembling slightly, poured himself a cup, filled a small plate with the pastries, and excused himself, leaving the room. _I’ll probably find him later, brooding alone in the library until he’s ready to talk,_ she told herself. _And talk he will. Lord, the man’s a talker! Which is one of the things that makes him an ideal diplomat…_ She remembered an old saying about ‘charming the birds out of the trees’ - that was her Xav.

      Aral was quiet, pale, and shivering slightly. A cold rain had been falling all day, but she doubted the weather had much to do with his present state. His grey eyes lit up momentarily, as three year old Padma, just up from an afternoon nap, ran toward him, giggling, shouting his name, and threw himself into his cousin’s arms. She sat the boys, now her only grandchildren out of the six, down by the fireplace, slipping Aral’s damp tunic off, and draping a hand-made afghan over his thin shoulders. He relaxed visibly, if only a little, listening to the cheerfully babbling toddler, who smothered him with hugs and sloppy kisses. _He desperately needs this,_ she told herself, _some semblance of normalcy, the unconditional affection of a young child. Hell_ , _he’s hardly more than a child himself..._

      They sat silently, with Aral scarcely noticing the tea things, looking down at Padma frequently as if to assure himself it was all real, alternating with staring bleakly beyond the French doors out into the distance, the deep grey eyes hooded, in private pain... 

     When he finally spoke, his voice was surprisingly steady. She realized suddenly that his voice had changed tremendously since she last saw him. _When was it? Two, three… possibly four months ago?_ It was very nearly a man’s voice now, a warm, rich, near-baritone, in marked contrast to his still child-sized body. His haunted eyes, though, were definitely _not_ a child’s eyes, far too wise beyond his years as he was. Had always been, really... Barely out of toddlerhood, he’d been so intense and serious, eager to the point of obsession to learn as much as he could about as much as he could, from whoever could teach him. Piotr, not entirely in jest, called him a ‘little old man,’ but Xav, as usual was much closer to the mark in calling Aral 'an old soul,' even at the age of four.

      “I thought I was so ready, and eager for that first cut, Gran, the way they told me to do it. ‘Deep,’ they said, ‘but not deep enough to kill.’ Then when Yuri was held before me, I felt a crazy, mad urge to slash his throat instead, to be done with it. End it, then and there.”

      Nodding in complete agreement with the sentiment, at least, she knew she would have felt exactly the same, Betan psychology be damned! 

      “‘Strike, little boy!’ he said, leering at me. ‘If you dare while you wear _my_ uniform. My uniform on a child.’ That was all he said, snarling when he said it. No remorse... none at all. I might have funked out if he’d had any. I said to him, ‘You killed all the children in that room.’”

      Aral began to tremble, violently. Quickly, she rewrapped the afghan, moved him closer to the fire, and held him lightly. He was silent for a few moments while his shudders gradually subsided. She marveled at how staggeringly profound his last statement had been. In his madness, Yuri had indeed killed all the children in the room that black day, even though Aral still drew breath. His childhood - his _real_ childhood which had only recently begun at the end of the Occupation, was over, left motherless and effectively homeless again at the age of eleven. She still grieved deeply for her children - Olivia and Mikhail dead, Sonia’s despair over the loss of her husband, siblings, and daughters making her even more lost than Aral most days, unable to care for herself, let alone little Padma. This boy, suffering so intensely and so alone, had the effect of diminishing her own grief when they were together. It put her in mind of an old Earth saying - ‘Joy shared is joy doubled, grief shared is halved’ - or words to that effect. She took solace in that, finding it to be so very true, fervently hoping Aral did, too. 

      She also found great solace in the fact that Aral had survived, so like Olivia as he was. While mothers are not supposed to have favorites, Livy was hers, the only one of her three children who embraced any part of their Betan heritage, and embrace it she did. Indeed, to hear Piotr tell it, Livy could be even more infuriatingly Betan than she herself was on occasion! Proud as she was, she intentionally took it as a compliment, knowing how much it vexed the man. Aral was very much his mother’s son - as keenly intelligent, sensitive, and artistic as she had been. Sentimental nonsense, perhaps, but she felt her dear Livy’s presence strongly when the boy was with her, and her pain was eased.

      She fervently wished there was something more she could do to comfort _him_... something more than the tea and sympathy she’d offered on those occasions during Yuri’s War when Xav or Ezar brought him to her after some ‘classified mission’ none of them would ever discuss. _Barrayarans!_ In fairness, she couldn’t fault them for that, not really. She had encouraged Xav and Ezar to give the boy, over Piotr’s objections, something more to do beyond his official aide-de-camp duties. Aral was so eager, so determined to prove himself, to justify his continued existence - classic survivor’s guilt. She had felt it would be cathartic for him, and it probably was, in its way. It gave him a purpose - a focus beyond his grief, at least until it was over. In retrospect, she was glad she never knew beforehand (or after) exactly what “more to do” might entail. At least they didn’t use him that way _too_ often...

      When Xav would bring him home after such a mission, Aral would usually be shivering, shocky, silent - with fearsome nightmares for days afterwards, but the unspoken agreement between them was that he didn’t have to talk about whatever he’d done or witnessed _unless he wanted to_. She respected that, she really did, but as exasperatingly Barrayaran as Xav and Piotr at times, the boy never did. The two of them would just sit quietly for a while drinking their tea. Later, Xav would settle him in for the night and sit with him until the nightmares passed. There had to be _something_ she and Xav could do, dammit - _anything_ \- in lieu of professional Betan-style therapy which Piotr would never allow. That attitude so infuriated her! Barring that, quality time here with them and Padma was all they could offer. It would have to suffice until he was sent off to school, once again adrift without home or family.

      He began to speak again, haltingly. “Mostly, though... I just wished... I just wished I’d had the guts… the guts to follow my first instinct and just get it over with. Quickly.”

      Gently, she smoothed his hair and rearranged the afghan on his shoulders.“The Prince-your-Grandfather said you looked quite ill.” _A boy, Princess, such a small boy among all those blood-lusting men,_ as Xav put it, _howling for Yuri’s scalp. Our sweet Aral looked so lost and alone, but determined as all hell to do his assigned part like a man. He did, too, as well as any man there. Those IDIOTS actually tried to get him drunk afterward! I got him out of there as quickly as I could before he’d had too much. He was sick soon after, as sick as he looked..._

      Aral nodded, eyes downcast, sniffling a little, deeply disturbed. “So many of the other men were cheering, laughing, jostling for their turn, like it was some kind of sport, or a carnival attraction. I felt sick to my stomach.” He glanced up at her, his eyes anguished and welling, looking a little green and decidedly unwell again. “He’d started screaming by then, you see. I was sorry my hearing had finally come back.”

      The images he conjured up sickened _her_ \- how horrid it must be for _him_! A backrub hardly seemed adequate, but it had always been a comfort to him in the past, so she tried it. As she rubbed, the taut muscles loosened, just a little. “How do you feel now, dear? Any better?” 

      “Better? I guess. A little... I dunno... I just feel so dirty, Gran.” Padma offered him his sweet roll, which he pretended to gobble with a weary smile, making the younger child laugh. “These past two years, I kept thinking about today… what it would be like when we finally made Yuri pay for what he’d done. I _wanted_ to do it, Gran, for Mama. And for Selig and Lina, too, of course... I _had_ to do it. _You_ see that, don’t you?”

      His ragged sigh was dark, bottomless, gutwrenching. “Somehow, I thought I’d feel better once it was over; that I’d feel good, victorious. Vindicated. But I don’t, Gran. I don’t at all. Just dirty. Sick and dirty. It feels like....” his new voice cracked, “I might never be clean again.”

      She rested her chin on his dark-stubbled head, its many scars standing out garishly white in contrast. The rough, brutal, military buzz cut did not suit him, not at all. It didn’t suit _anyone_ , in her opinion, but sweet, sensitive Aral least of all. Hopefully, he’d grow it out at least a few inches - the school would allow that much. She kissed his cheek and assured him, “That just proves you have a very good heart and a rather non-Barrayaran sense of decency. Your mother - _my poor, darling Livy_ \- taught you well. The sick feeling will pass, but always, always remember how it felt. It will serve you well as an officer.” _And hopefully it will keep you from becoming like the rest of this murderous planet,_ she prayed.

      “Your grandfather told me the emperor -Emperor Ezar, that is - said he was very proud of the way you comported yourself today and that he expects great things from you.”

      Aral shrugged. “Ezar’s all right. I like him well enough. But I think Grand’da would make a much better emperor.”

      “Quite frankly, kiddo, so do I, but he just couldn’t be persuaded, for reasons he has mysteriously decided to keep to himself. He says I just wouldn’t understand - that it’s a Barrayaran thing. Ah, well, he’s probably right. God knows I’d hate for him to start calling me Empress.” 

      Snorting, she looked at Aral, who was tentatively sipping a cup of tea, the barest hint of a smile around his lips. _Excellent!_ _That’s a good start,_ she told herself. _Once the shock wears of, he’ll get his appetite back. I just hope it doesn’t take too long. He’s thin enough already...._

 _I wonder if he knows that Xav’s turning down the damn campstool means that HE won’t have to be emperor some day. Unless Ezar doesn’t produce an heir, a distinct possibility considering the age of the mother-to-be..._ She berated herself sternly. _Of course he knows, silly - he’s every bit as brilliant as Xav! More so, to hear Xav tell it... Poor thing. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about._

      She offered him a plate of brillberry blini, usually a huge favorite of his. He took one politely, and began to nibble, without much enthusiasm or appetite. Eager to change the subject, she told him, “You’ll stay here, of course, with us and Padma, until it’s time to start school. You always have a place here with your grandfather and me - whenever you want it. No questions asked. You know that, don’t you, love?”

      He smiled at her, finally, a real smile, if a small one - a thankful, relieved smile. _The boy has such a wonderful smile,_ she mused, _it’s a shame he doesn’t use it more often. Not that the poor dear has had much to smile about, these past two years particularly...._

      “Yes, ma’am, I do. And I thank you. I don’t think I could go back to Vorkosigan House or the lake house just now anyway. I’m not ready. I’m not sure when or if I will ever be... They’re not _home_ anymore, y’know - just buildings we lived in for a while. Mama, Sig, and Lina - _they_ were home to me. All those Occupation years, we were always together, the four of us, sometimes with Da at different camps, but mostly on the run from the Cetas. Together. We were all we had, just each other. In a way, I’m glad I’ll be going away to school, so I won’t have to deal with that right away.” 

      “You can’t run away from it forever, sweetie,” she said, brushing some crumbs from his eyebrow deposited there by Padma’s sticky fingers. “You’re much too young to have learned such a difficult lesson, but you’ve learned it all the same, the hard way. Never forget,” she touched his forehead, “your home, is here,” then rested her hand lightly on his chest over his heart, “and here. Where _they_ are. Forever in your memory. Your father would call it a foolish Betan weakness, I know, but he’d be wrong. So very wrong. You _do_ understand, don’t you?”

      He looked at her with water in his eyes - so heartbreakingly like Olivia’s, she drew a sharp breath, and felt her own brimming over. “I _do_ know it, Gran,” he said in that new, stunning, deepening voice. “I think I’ve always known. My home is not a place, but people.” 

 

**Author's Note:**

> See "Ugly Duckling" for the first in the series  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/1405570


End file.
